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I bluster. “It was my decision.”
“Ah, of course. Just an innocent, spineless fish in your ocean.”
You asshole. I cringe.
“So, what’s his deal now? He’s ready to be your man? Ready to take on the challenge of standing up to us big, bad interviewers?”
As the audience laughs, I glance at Harrison, worried about what all of this shit is doing to him. I worry my teeth into my lip and try my best to calm my racing heart. The baby has got to be wondering why in the fuck I’ve decided to run a marathon at this point.
But when I find Harrison’s familiar eyes on the side of the set, it’s more than obvious that all he cares about is me. Calm, soothing, kind smile in place and a confident stance, he’s one hundred times the man Gary Bull could even dream of ever being.
Unfortunately, my attention on him is all Gary needs to take the cue and run with it.
“Why don’t we bring him up here now? Have a word with him ourselves? That is him over there, isn’t it?”
Before I can protest, the camera is turned in Harrison’s direction and aimed directly at his masculine stance.
He seems unaffected with his arms crossed over his chest as he looks to me for approval or denial. At this point, I don’t know how I’d deny having him come up and talk with us without creating a whole load of other shit, so I shrug just one shoulder in confirmation.
He uncrosses his arms, plants a smile on his face, and strides our direction, a walking, talking orgasm, if I’m honest.
I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones or what, but I’m a raging case of Hornville. I want to bone him like a freaking archeologist.
A chorus of music fires up and scrolls its rhythm as Harrison steps up onto the elevated set and takes a seat in the chair next to me that the crew has just scrambled to put there.
It’s all I can do to keep my emotions in check—i.e., off my face—as Gary Bull smiles in his direction and starts firing off questions.
“So, Harrison, is it?”
Harrison smiles, extending one long arm along the back of my chair and settling into his new spot on TV like he’s been here dozens of times before. “Yes, that’s right. My name is Harrison Hughes.”
Could he be any sexier? My inner monologue goes Chandler Bing as I hold my breath and wait for what will most likely be more invasive questions from the asshole host.
But Harrison… Well, he just takes it all in self-assured stride, sitting beside me with an easygoing smile etched across his perfect mouth.
“Harrison Hughes. That’s cute alliteration,” Gary says snidely, giving a shitty little wink to the audience in an effort to ruffle Harrison’s feathers. The problem is, unlike the rest of the brood that makes its way across Gary’s stage, Harrison is used to living in the real world. He doesn’t peacock his way through life—and as a result, he doesn’t have nearly the same number of feathers available to ruffle.
“Well, I can’t take credit for it, seeing as I wasn’t in charge of naming myself, but thank you. I’m sure my parents would appreciate your approval.”
Gary saws his lip with his teeth at Harrison’s easy dismissal. “That’s cute. Funny. I guess you’re a funny guy.”
Harrison smirks. “I’ve got experience with a joke or two, Jerry.”
“It’s Gary.”
“Oh,” Harrison says, his feigned surprise about the faux pas more than obvious to me. “My apologies, Gary. There’re so many vying to interview and chat with this lovely woman right here, it’s so hard to keep track of all of you.” He leans forward slightly and dramatically lowers his voice. “And if I’m being honest, I’ve never really been one to watch gossip talk shows.”
Gary’s eyes gleam in warning, but the gun is loaded, cocked, and fired before I can intervene. “So, Mr. Joke Man. You’re an expert in identifying the look of a joke, huh? Then I guess you were prepared to play the role of Mrs. Raquel Weaver.”
Harrison shrugs. “Mrs. Raquel Weaver doesn’t sound like much of a joke to me.”
“You must be missing the punch line,” Gary jabs with an obnoxious laugh. “See, you’re the Mrs.!”
“The Mrs.?”
“That’s right. You’re her arm candy,” Gary snickers.
“Wow.” Harrison shakes his head and leans in and crosses one relaxed ankle across the edge of his knee, and I swear to God it is so dang sexy, my vagina could cry. “Okay, Gare. Let’s pretend for a second that you didn’t just set us back a half a century by presuming that the primary role in any relationship should belong to a man, or that a man should in any way be a dominant gender…” The mostly female audience guffaws, and I almost have to cover my mouth. “Ignoring all of that, which is hard to do because it pretty grimly paints you as an archaic, lecherous tie to the outdated patriarchy…I am happy to play the backup role to Raquel. I’m proud. She’s a successful woman who’s worked unbelievably hard to get where she is, and any man who gets to stand in her vicinity should thank his lucky stars.”
